Fortune of Our Misfortune
by marinoa
Summary: A good start doesn't mean that the rest of the journey will be easy, and so Francis and Arthur's respective worlds keep on turning each their own way. However, they should both know that it's only a matter of time before they collide. FrUK, AU, sequel to my fic Misfortune always Includes Fortune.
1. Moment one

_Author's note:_ As the description says, this is sort-of-a-sequel to my fic Misfortune always Includes Fortune. There will be several chapters here, but no great plot; only moments in Francis and Arthur's lives. Enjoy! :)

**Fortune of Our Misfortune**

**Moment one**

"Do you remember when we were kids and you climbed a tree to rescue my kitten?" Arthur asks suddenly.

Francis stops counting raindrops on the train window and turns his eyes on the blond Englishman sitting opposite to him. Arthur is gazing out of the window, leaning his chin on his palm, head resting against the cold glass. He doesn't look at Francis, and nothing in his posture signals that he has just spoken to the Frenchman.

"Why do you ask?" Francis inquires after a moment of deliberation.

"Forget it," is Arthur's immediate retort. His eyes are still on the changing scenery, and his face betrays no emotions whatsoever, no clues what he might be thinking of. He has always been a great mystery to Francis, with that rejective wall he has built around himself to keep the Frenchman away, and yet Francis knows him inside and out. It is a curious paradox, that one.

Francis fixes his eyes on the window again and resumes counting raindrops. One, two, three...

"I rescued Horatio more than once, you know," he then utters, and at that Arthur's eyes actually flicker on him for a second. Francis manages to catch s small flash in them before they return to stare at passing fields, but it's enough – he knows Arthur is listening.

"Strangely enough," he continues, lips tugging to a small smile as he recollects, "your cat never learnt from the first time."

The first time. The first time when Arthur's kitten got stuck on a tree was the first time when Francis encountered the small, huge-eyed and messy-haired boy, who was crying for his inability to help his precious kitten. At that time the wall between Arthur and Francis did not yet exist – it was only later when the English boy learnt how to build it. Francis suspects that he never learnt how to take it down.

Arthur is still gazing into distance, but Francis knows that he's only pretending to be indifferent. He can see it in the ever so slight tension in the Englishman's facial muscles, in the way he keeps his eyes trained on one spot instead of letting them follow the scenery.

"Why do you ask?" Francis repeats his earlier question.

"No reason," Arthur bluntly utters.

That's a lie. With Arthur, there is always a reason.

"So be it," Francis states and turns to the window, too. In this moment, Arthur reminds Francis of Horatio – the cat only reflected the stubbornness of his owner, he is convinced of that. Well then. If Arthur has decided to be a safe with seven locks, there is no way the Frenchman could get anything out of him, anyway, so he might as well drop the subject.

Only he knows that's a lie, too.

Truth is that with enough coaxing, with the right questions and an appropriate amount of persistence, Francis would be able to tease Arthur into cracking the door of his unbreakable fortress open just a bit, just enough to stick his foot inside so that the door couldn't be closed any more. Francis knows that this spontaneous question of Arthur's is a crack in the wall, something that Francis could use to his advantage before Arthur notices it and repairs it to be even stronger than before. With some effort Francis would be able to make his way into Arthur's fortress, he knows.

But he doesn't do it. Doesn't coax, doesn't tease, doesn't force Arthur to splutter and curse but nevertheless open his door. He isn't sure he wants to. He isn't sure he wants to see what's inside those walls, because then it would be different, it would be intimate, sort of, and then Francis would have to acknowledge that there is something special there. And it just wouldn't be worth the effort to break through those walls and find what exactly that something special is only to be pushed away by Arthur. However, what Francis does not admit is that there might be a little bit of fear, too, fear of losing something that he doesn't even quite have.

And so Francis doesn't ask, Arthur doesn't tell, and the train keeps on moving.

(Neither Francis nor Arthur know that the railway leads to abyss and they will fall into it if they won't get off the train on time.)

X


	2. Moment two

_Author's note:_ I had troubles with finding the "moment" of this chapter, but then I broke my knee and got inspired. :'D

**Fortune of Our Misfortune**

**Moment two**

Michelle watches him with a mildly exasperated frown on her pretty, tanned face. "So you say it's okay?" she asks Arthur. "You don't need to go to A&E because of a small bruise like yours, huh?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Arthur calmly confirms.

"Arthur," she says, unimpressed. "Your ankle is twice the size of a trunk, purple, and obviously quite painful. You sure you don't want to go?"

"I'm _sure_."

"Bullshit," Michelle states quite bluntly, as is so typical of her. "Who's your In-Case-of-Emergency? I assume he has a car?"

Arthur grits his teeth and makes an attempt to rise up from the pavement. "There's no need- fffuck!" He slumps back on the street, biting his teeth together so tightly that his jaw begins to ache. "Fuck! Fuck the fucking fucker of all fucks!"

Michelle winces sympathetically. "Ouch."

"Fine," Arthur hisses through his teeth. "I'll go to A&E."

"Finally." Michelle rolls her eyes. "Now call your ICE, it's getting chilly here."

A defiant expression, Arthur's favourite, makes a home of his face. "No."

All sympathy drops from Michelle's eyes. "Arthur, you are such an annoying idiot," she sighs. "Give me your phone."

"No."

She narrows her eyes. "Let me rephrase that." By now, they are getting odd and curious looks from occasional passers-by, but, as the situation seems to be in control, no one dares stop and offer their help.

"You will give me your phone," Michelle commands and smirks. "Or I'll kick your ugly swollen ankle."

Arthur snorts; he knows this trick. "You wouldn't."

She does. Only lightly, though, but just enough to convince Arthur to quit being an idiot and do as she says. "You evil woman," he hisses at her.

Michelle remains unaffected and only extends her hand. "Your phone, please."

Grudgingly, Arthur fishes his phone from his jeans pocket and, muttering curses, tosses it to her. He would much rather hop on his injured leg the whole fucking way there and back again rather than have _him_ help him out.

Michelle selects the contact from the list and presses the green button. Arthur can tell the exact moment that Francis answers, because suddenly Michelle's smile drops and is replaced with an angry frown. Now it's Arthur's turn to smirk; that's her reward for threatening him.

"_Excuse me_?" she snaps into the phone, and Arthur smirks again, now imagining Francis' face when he realises that he insulted a girl instead of Arthur. "Shut up, I don't care. Here's th- I said, _I don't care. _Do you have a car? Marvellous, we need your ass here, the sooner, the better. _What? _Wait, you _are_ aware of being Arthur Kirkland's ICE, aren't you? Yes. Yes, he's fine. Because he's an ass and refused to call you himself (I can now see why, though). No, just his ankle. Get here. Good. Thanks. Bye."

She ends the call and casts a look at Arthur. "Who is he?"

Arthur shrugs. "A childhood... friend," he says, and explains a bit defensively, "He was the only person I knew here when I moved in London, so..."

Michelle snorts. "Didn't sound like a childhood friend by the way of his greeting."

"Well, yeah, he's an arsehole."

"He did sound adorably concerned though, when he heard it's about an emergency," Michelle points out and sits down on the pavement beside Arthur. "He'll be here soon."

"Can't wait," Arthur mutters grimly.

She looks confused. "How come you seem to dislike him so?"

Arthur shrugs again, unable and, more importantly, unwilling to elaborate his relationship with Francis to anyone. So he settles for a simple answer. "He's a prick, that's why. You'll see when he comes." He eyes Michelle suspiciously. "Or maybe you won't. He knows how to blind women."

Michelle lifts her brows at him and laughs. "Don't underestimate me, Arthur."

"Beware." Arthur shifts one the pavement, uncomfortable on the cold stone, and wonders what he would answer is someone demanded a _real_ answer from him one day, concerning Francis and him. What could he say? They grew up together, laughed together, fought together (or rather, fought each other). At some point their innocent childhood friendship turned into something else that has no shape, no solid form. They are not friends, nowadays, not really, but they know each other inside out and to the core. Arthur sometimes feels as though they are both dancing in circles, most of the time trying to elbow or trip one another, but occasionally taking a couple of steps together, too.

"I don't get it," Michelle states, curious. "Why haven't you changed your ICE if he's that bad? I mean you do have other friends, too."

"Well, it's..." Arthur resist the urge to shrug once more, because he knows that Michelle will get stupid ideas if the does that. "You know what they say: we can't change geography. It's the same with us. We co-exist, since childhood, and he knows my parents if something serious happens. Besides -"

At that moment a small, once bright crimson car drives past them, then slows, makes a U-turn, and parks beside them at the pavement. Arthur spots Francis' blond head through the window and grimaces out of habit.

"Is it him?" Michelle asks and hops on her feet to step forward and greet Francis as he gets out of the car. The Frenchman shakes his head when she explains the situation to him and looks at Arthur with his hands on his hips. Arthur meets his eyes defiantly and suppresses a sudden urge to stick his tongue out.

"Naturally you must pull a trick like this just when I'm serving the prettiest customer of the day," Francis snorts and extends his hand for Arthur.

"Well you didn't have to take the call, did you?" Arthur snaps back at him and grabs the hand, letting Francis hoist him up. "Naturally you _attempt_ flirting even in your work time, frog."

Francis frowns at him, holding his elbow to keep him in balance. "Lucky for you I did take the call," he states with haughty dignity and turns to Michelle. "Because of it, I got to meet this lovely lady here. I apologise for you having to cope with him alone this whole time."

Michelle is about to answer, but Francis turns to open the car door for Arthur, then frowns at him. "Nevertheless, I'd appreciate it if you had the decency to call me yourself when something like this happens. I don't want to explain to your mother one day that you froze to death in a ditch just because you're too stubborn to ask for help."

Arthur plops down on the passenger's seat in an ungraceful motion and cringes at the ache in his ankle. "I'm sure she'd understand me perfectly if it came to that," he grunts.

"You are such a child, Arthur," Francis utters with a roll of his eyes and slams the door shut to prevent Arthur from answering. The Englishman hears Francis asking Michelle whether she's accompanying them to the first-aid station, but she, looking from the Frenchman to Arthur, smiles and shakes her head. When she declines the offered lift home, as well, Francis walks around the car and sits on the driver's place. Michelle gives Arthur an encouraging thumbs-up and he scowls at her through the window.

Why does Arthur still have Francis as his ICE, Michelle asked. He throws a glance to his right, where the Frenchman is fastening his seatbelt and complaining about getting troubles with his boss because of Arthur, and Arthur allows himself a tiny, barely noticeable smile.

_Why, _he thinks._ Because I know Francis will be there._

X


	3. Moment three

**Fortune of Our Misfortune**

**Moment three**

The cause of their fight has changed three times already by the time that the plate hits the floor and breaks. The half-eaten slice of apple pie that has turned into mush forty-eight minutes earlier makes a disgusting squishy sound when it splatters over Francis' left shoe, and Francis winces. Arthur, who sits across of him, doesn't even pause his rant, and Francis feels his nerves thinning and thinning and very soon reaching the point of snapping, because someone clearly doesn't know when to _shut up_.

"Stuff your mouth with something, will you Arthur, and_ tone down_, because -"

"Oh, so it's only me needing to -"

"You already broke the plate, do you need us thrown out of here, you -"

"Yes, because mister Nothing's-Ever-My-Fault is -"

"Guys -"

"You pulled the tablecloth -"

"Well did you have to leave your plate so near to the edge, it wouldn't -"

"It's not a question of where I left the plate -"

"Guys."

"Of course it's not, because _monsieur_ Bonnefoy here is _never_ wrong."

"Why can't you ever let me finish?"

"Because I'm fed up with the shit that you -"

"_Shut the fuck up, both of you!_"

Francis startles – as do all the other customers of the café, including Arthur. They both look at Michelle, who just slammed her fists against the table and jumped on her feet, and now regards them with unsuppressed fury. The entire café falls into a frightened silence for several seconds, but then other customers discreetly return to minding their own business and pretending that no one has been yelling their throats raw with an endless stack of verbal daggers.

"You fucking shitheads," Michelle growls at them, eyes darting from Arthur to Francis and back to Arthur again. "You- are you happy now? Are you fucking happy now? I just, you -"

She shakes in anger and frustration, unable to find words, and Francis shoots Arthur a dark look. _Look what you did._ The green eyes respond with a similar accusation of their own.

"Fuck you!" Michelle finally spits out. She is furious, like a wasp, but it's the slight waver in her voice that draws Francis' eyes on her face. She is breathing heavily, cheeks flushing, muted by her own rage, but then – for Francis' immense horror – he glimpses tears forming in those flaring eyes, and it is then that he feels shame for his actions. "Michelle," he begins, but she silences him with a warning jerk of her head.

"I can't even -" she finally starts, cuts herself off, and continues in a choked voice, "Why do you _do_ that? To each other? To me? You two are horrible. Horrible."

Arthur opens his mouth, but Michelle doesn't give him the chance to even begin. "That's not even fighting," she continues, not bothering to keep her voice low. She is visibly hurt, painfully so, and Francis' cheeks turn red of guilt. Angrily, Michelle rubs away her tears with her fists. "What you do is _savaging_, you just. When I first saw you two together I thought that wow, those guys are close. But you misuse that closeness, I don't even know, you use that closeness to hurt, and you hurt everyone else in the process too! Why do you do that?"

Her voice rises at the last words, and Francis casts a silent, careful look at Arthur, who meets his eyes. It almost feels as though they are reaching a point of mutual understanding, but then Arthur's brow twitches and Francis knows that he's about to say something dangerous. To prevent it he opens his own mouth to speak first, but then Michelle sees what they are doing. "Fuck you both!" she snarls and, turning on her heels, storms out of the café.

Arthur shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. "There you go," he says, mockingly.

Francis' eyes darken. "That meaning?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Don't fuck with me, Arthur."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

His tone is driving Francis to the edge. "You well know that I wasn't alone in this," he says in a low voice.

"I also know well who started this."

Francis grits his teeth. "I'm glad to hear you realise that throwing snide remarks between _every word that I say_ may cause arguments."

Arthur's eyes fire up again. "If only you also realised that you deserve each of them! Why can't you behave like a normal, decent human-being, Francis, at least in public? At least in company? Why do you _always_ -"

"Arthur, I -" Francis pauses and struggles to keep his voice down; waiters are too afraid to approach their table as it is, even to kick them out. "Sometimes I would really, really like to strangle you with my own hands."

Arthur's lips form a tight line, and Francis sees how his jaw tenses. "Sometimes I would like to strangle myself only to free myself of your company."

"I'm glad we have this much in common."

They don't say anything after that. Michelle is right, Francis thinks. It is unbelievable how their questionable closeness suddenly turns into a war-zone, with a pure intention of hurting. Francis doesn't even know what triggers it; a word, a gesture, a misunderstanding, an understanding. A wink to wrong direction, a frown where it shouldn't be sent. It's mesmerising in a terrible way how Arthur and his relationship alters between some sort of intimacy and toxicity, it's a rat race that they are tired of following yet unable to break free from. Perhaps, if they didn't talk past each other -

Francis shifts and brushes the broken pieces of the plate with his foot. Muttering curses in French, he crouches under the table to collect the pieces, and puts them on the table. Arthur's eyes land on them.

"We need to pay for that," he says.

Francis crouches again, to wipe his shoe clean of the disgusting pie. "I'll pay for it," he grunts.

There is a moment of silence, and Francis practically feels Arthur's hesitation before he speaks. "Francis -"

But Francis doesn't want to hear. Right now, he doesn't want to hear what Arthur's got to say, doesn't want to see him. Right now, he can't stand the mere thought of Arthur. _No one else, _ he thinks bitterly, _no one else is able to drive me to this level of madness. _"I said I'll pay for it, so there should be nothing more keeping you here," he bites icily.

When Francis is finally satisfied with the state of his shoe and straightens, Arthur is gone.

X


	4. Moment four

**Fortune of Our Misfortune**

**Moment four**

And then there are moments like this.

His phone rings. Arthur looks at the name on the screen and frowns. Francis.

He lets the phone ring for seven seconds before answering it; he would rather die than appear eager to answer Francis' calls. "What?"

"Hello to you too," Francis greets him dryly and Arthur can practically sense the roll of his eyes.

"Yes, do you actually have something to say?" Arthur politely inquires, but keeps edginess out of his voice; it is a good day, and he must admit that Francis' call doesn't entirely ruin it. It's actually quite nice – they haven't seen each other since they last visited their home town three weeks ago. Arthur curls into his blanket even more comfortably, lets his book rest on his chest, and listens.

"What happened to small-talk? I thought you Brits were supposed to be good at it." Francis' voice is good-natured as well. Arthur hears his steps in the background – sounds like he's walking on little pebbles – and snorts into the phone. "You're just not worth the effort."

Francis heaves a dramatic sigh. "I still remember when you were small and cute and admired me unconditionally."

"Yeah, well I've become wiser over the years."

"Have you now." There is a laughter, light and low, and it warms Arthur's chest inside. The sound of pebbles ceases, but now Francis has entered somewhere windy.

"Where are you?" he asks, absently playing with the pages of his book.

"Coming from work. Speaking of which – what are you doing tonight?"

"Why?" Arthur asks.

"Well," Francis says. "I thought that we could go eat something. Since I'm already around your neighbourhood. Besides, I haven't got anything prepared at home and I doubt that you have, either, and even if you had, it's probably better left uneaten anyway."

"Git," Arthur retorts out of habit, but thinks about it. "I'm too comfortable right now," he then decides aloud.

"Oh, come off it. We needn't go anywhere far, I quite like that one place at the end of your street -"

Arthur actually laughs a little. "Well if you're that desperate..."

"I am not!" Francis gasps, appalled. "But. It's been a while."

Arthur's stomach flutters at this, a little. "Yeah," he admits. "Fine. Give me five minutes."

"Make sure to wear something presentable this time, will you," Francis kindly reminds him. "I'd hate to be ashamed on your behalf once again. At the very least have the decency to leave that horrid jumper where no one can ever find it."

"Piss off," Arthur snorts and immediately decides to wear the jumper in question just to spite Francis. (He also decides to wear the tight jeans that he has heard Francis once complementing to his friend when he thought that Arthur was out of earshot.)

"Oh, and please tell me that you've got a haircut since our last encounter! Your hair was terribly overgrown already then."

At this Arthur actually blushes a little, because his hair is indeed in a desperate need of a haircut and looks anything but good, not even tolerable. But he has just paid his rent, and having food is higher on his priority list than having haircuts.

Francis interprets his silence correctly. "_Dieu_," he groans. "Do I need to do everything myself?"

"As it happens, it's my hair, not yours, so -" Arthur starts, but Francis interrupts him.

"I could, though," he says. "Cut your hair, I mean. If you'd like to avoid the expenses of a hairdresser."

"I- well, I. Well." Arthur remembers the first time when Francis cut his hair – they were kids then, and it was embarrassing as hell. Besides, boast as he may, Francis was _not_ an expert of giving haircuts at the humble age of nine, and Arthur's parents were forced to take their sulking son to an actual hairdresser after that. Francis, however, got better at it over time and, when they both lived in London already, he got into a habit of doing Arthur a favour and tidying his messy mop every now and then. In return, Arthur sometimes gives him free lunch tickets that he gets from work.

"Anyway, I'm at your building already," Francis changes the subject, and true enough, Arthur hears how the corridor door opens and closes. Soon after that his doorbell rings.

"Let me in," Francis says into the phone.

"Idiot," Arthur utters. "Why did you keep blabbering on the phone if you were so close?" But a smile sneaks on his face anyway, and he doesn't wipe it off, just because, and unlocks the door.

"Maybe I just like talking to you," Francis chuckles into his phone and flashes Arthur a playful grin.

Arthur hates these moments. He hates them, because it's for them that he can't let go.

X


	5. Moment five

**Fortune of Our Misfortune**

**Moment five**

Francis chooses Arthur's name from his contact list and presses the call button. He patiently waits the familiar seven seconds that Arthur always makes him wait (really, the Englishman should vary the time – Francis has long since understood what he's doing there), but this time, the cold makes the seconds feel much longer – and Francis more annoyed.

When Arthur answers, it's with his typical eloquence. "What the fuck do you want now?" he practically spits in the phone, and Francis cringes distastefully.

"You are late," he states simply, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"I know I'm fucking late, smartarse! I'd be there sooner if you _stopped ringing me_." Francis hears sounds of traffic through the phone, hears Arthur's running steps; he's probably trying to catch the bus.

"I'll leave you to it," the Frenchman says derisively and ends the call.

What Gilbert was thinking when he assigned both Francis and Arthur to the preparation group, Francis would like to know. Most likely he thought it a funny joke and considered himself awfully clever. Well, Francis will kill him later. Now, they have a hall to decorate.

No one knows how, but this year, Gilbert actually managed to get himself elected for the student council president of their university. What is even more surprising than that, he handles his responsibilities with real accuracy and seriousness, running everything with strict precision, and yet managing to maintain an easygoing and inspiring air about himself. Gil would make an excellent leader, and Francis can only wonder how he hasn't realised that earlier.

Now the task at hand is to prepare the hall for the celebration of the students graduating in December. It's the council's responsibility to decorate the hall for the ceremony, and Gilbert chose his friends to help also outside the council – hence both Francis and Arthur's presence. It is a simple task that wouldn't take much time, if only a certain someone was so kind as to drag his arse there to let them in.

"We'd be half done already, had you entrusted someone else with those damned keys," Francis grumbles to Gilbert and rubs his arms in desperate attempt to warm himself.

"Chill," the German says and cackles at his own brilliance and the dirty look that Francis sends his way. "What's eating you, Franny? Anyone could be late."

"Anyone could, but Arthur is," Francis retorts.

Gilbert rolls his eyes. "I don't get you two. One moment you get along perfectly well, and the next you are all of the sudden trying to kill one another."

Francis mumbles something illegible to that, as even he is at loss sometimes with that very same question, and Gil shrugs and changes the subject. Francis, however, is unresponsive. He's cold – no, _freezing_ – and all he wants is to get home as soon as possible to curl in his bed with a steaming mug of hot chocolate. But no, thanks to Arthur, he must apparently freeze to death if he wants to have enough sleep.

Then they spot a running figure at the end of the road. "There he is!" Liz exclaims and everyone cheers, everyone but Francis.

"I'm terribly sorry," Arthur splutters when he finally stops to open the door, "I missed the first bus and -"

"What, got your tongue stuck frozen to a street lamp?" Francis inquires, making everyone laugh, but Arthur ignores him and lets them all in.

"All right!" Gilbert calls to have everyone's attention once they are in the hall and have got rid of their coats and scarves and hats. "Lets get to business. Iv, Al, and Luddy, you will arrange the chairs. The rows start from here. You two, Artie and Lovi, will hang the flags across the hall and put the balloons on walls. Franny, you and Liz will take care of the pictures and paintings. I'll be taking care of the rest. All clear? Good – get to work!"

Francis notices a small smile that flickers on Elizaveta's lips when she turns from Gilbert to him, and smiles knowingly; he knows what's going on there.

"He would make a great military leader," he says casually, nodding in the German's direction as they gather the paintings and the pictures that will be hung on the walls.

She quirks her brow questionably, and Francis throws her a smile, just the tiniest bit suggestive beneath the perfect innocence. "He gets people to both obey and love him," he clarifies.

A light – and exceedingly rare! – blush appears on Lizzie's cheeks and Francis smirks; she is sharp and not bad at the matters of romance herself.

"Really now," she utters, but not without a small smile. "He's also rather good at making enemies."

That Francis can't deny.

The decoration proceeds quickly, as arranging chairs or hanging pictures and balloons on the walls doesn't require a lot of time. Ludvig, Gilbert's little brother, manages to keep Ivan and Alfred in control whenever the two get too enthusiastic in their arguments, and Francis and Elizaveta maintain an idle conversation while they work. However, a constant string of curses, coming from Arthur and Lovino's direction, keeps distracting the Frenchman every now and then.

"Oi, I told you to hold the fucking string up while it tie it to the hook!"

"Shut up, bastard, don't let it- great, now look what you did, you sorry fucker!"

Francis glances in their direction and catches a glimpse of an angry Italian and a frustrated Englishman collecting little colourful flags from the floor. "I take back my words," he says to Elizaveta. "A good leader would have had enough sense to assign them to different groups."

"He paired them for the laugh, I'm sure." Then her eyes glimmer dangerously. "You are probably right, though. He should have put you with Arthur instead."

Liz can play the subtle game, too, Francis notes a little exasperatedly; he shouldn't have hinted anything about her and Gil, now she will be getting back at him. However, he knows better than to catch the bait, and deliberately lets her comment pass.

But Lizzie is persistent. "What's your story, anyway? I've never heard it properly, only hints here and there."

"There's no story," Francis informs her calmly.

"Come on! You've known each other since forever, and weren't you together at some point?"

Francis' jaw falls open of sheer shock and he stares at Elizaveta, horrified. "Us, together? Where did you _hear_ that?"

She grins. "Am I right then?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Really? But I thought you slept together that one time after Alfred and Matthew's party, Gilbert told me."

"Well, yes, that _one_ time," Francis grudgingly admits. "And we were both drunk."

"So..?" Lizzie keeps prodding. "If you slept together, it means you've got at least some attraction towards one another."

"No, it doesn't. We were drunk."

She pouts, dissatisfied. "So, how did it happen then? You both just happened to fill your heads with alcohol and had sex all of a sudden, is that what you're saying?"

Well, that isn't the exact truth, either. It started as a normal party of their common acquaintance, which naturally involved loads of cheap booze. It wasn't that either of them was particularly drunk though, just tipsy enough for Francis to suggest and Arthur to accept an invitation to the Frenchman's flat; as it was one of the better periods in their acquaintanceship, the Frenchman decided to be a friend and let Arthur sleep at his place, since the last bus to the Englishman's own neighbourhood had gone. There, they somehow began to talk, and drink wine, and talk some more. Eventually, the conversation led to their childhood and then to their late teen years, to the time when Francis had been leaving for uni in London. Francis brought up a certain memory of those times, namely, a memory of their _actual_ first time together, and that, quite unexpectedly, resulted in them doing it again, with more experience this time.

"Basically, yes," Francis mutters and focuses on straightening a painting on the wall.

"I see," Elizaveta says, unconvinced, but fails to get anything more out of Francis.

"There were no great emotions or strings attached or anything," Francis clarifies, just to make his point clear. "We just did it."

"Hm," says Liz and looks at him funnily, but returns to the task at hand, too.

Their conversation, however, has unsettled Francis. His eyes insist on slipping to Arthur more and more often, catching glimpses of him hovering on a chair, reaching up to tie the balloons to the hook in the wall, his shirt exposing a slice of bare skin when he reaches up. Their first time together was more an experiment than anything else, as, at the time, Arthur was a virgin and Francis had only done it with a woman a couple of times; and their second time was in a drunken state. But how would a third time be, with them both now experienced _and_ completely sober?

Francis doesn't realise that he keeps staring until Elizaveta nudges him, and he quickly turns away, embarrassed to be caught.

Elizaveta looks at him relentlessly. "There is something, though," she says and surprises him with her sympathetic tone. "You must admit that much, at least. There is _something_ there, isn't it?"

Francis involuntarily glances back at Arthur and sighs in frustrated exasperation, directed at himself. He can't even begin to count the times when he's tried to figure out Arthur and his relationship, but he never quite manages to come to any conclusion... or never quite manages to accept the conclusion that has been threateningly hovering upon him. But perhaps there's no sense in denying it any longer, since Elizaveta appears to be seeing it, too. Perhaps he should accept it to finally move on. Like this, it's like he's constantly stuck in something.

"I suppose so," Francis finally admits, slowly. "Something."

"Hm," Elizaveta says again and they get back to work.

X


	6. Moment six

**Fortune of Our Misfortune**

**Moment ****six**

Arthur is met with a mildly exasperated frown when Francis deigns to open the door of his flat to him. "About time," the Frenchman greets him nonchalantly and turns around, leaving it up to Arthur to invite himself in. Arthur does, and closes the door behind himself. He's not quite sure what triggered their current hostility or when it happened (well, a certain moment does come to mind), but he has a strong feeling that this time, it was him who started it, and, Arthur notes, it looks like it's only him who'd like to move past it already; Francis' eyes are coloured with a mixture of nonchalantness and disdain.

"Your parents send their greetings," Francis informs him over his shoulder, walking to his desk.

"Thanks," Arthur replies and instinctively follows him. Francis visited their home town two weeks earlier, and, as Arthur himself has been too busy with studies to visit his parents for quite a while, his mother asked Francis to deliver a package to Arthur. Arthur has no idea of what she sent him, but it had better be worth enduring this unfriendly silence that radiates from Francis and does its best to little by little suffocate Arthur.

The package, apparently, is not where Francis thought it was, and with a small frown the Frenchman moves to his shelf. He doesn't say a word to Arthur, his eyes don't even brush the Englishman when he walks past him. It's like he's not even there.

Arthur's hand moves on its own accord.

He will never be able to explain what possesses him then, what makes his good sense too slow to catch up with the movement of his hand. He acts on impulse, and all in all, the whole situation is more an accident than anything else, let alone an intentional act of ill will. In all honesty, Arthur has never, ever even thought of taking the chewing gum out of his mouth and sticking it in Francis' hair, but nevertheless, that is precisely what happens when the Frenchman walks past Arthur and turns his rejective back on him again.

Arthur doesn't even comprehend what he has done, not until Francis turns to him with a questioning expression, and then it finally downs on him, turning blood into cold water in his veins because he knows, _knows_, how painstakingly Francis takes care of his hair, and _oh my God, am I laughing?_

Then it downs on Francis, as well.

It was an accident, it really was, but Francis, strangely, does not believe him.

He is not amused, either.

"Arthur, stop laughing or I _swear–_ _merde, _you little _shit -_!"

But Arthur can't help himself. He tries, he honestly does, but he can't control the fit of hysterical laughter that has swallowed him. He laughs so that his stomach hurts and tears gather in his eyes. It's just so comical, Francis' face when he realised what Arthur had done, it was _hilarious_, and Lord, why can't he stop _laughing_?

He vaguely realises that Francis is staring at him, his furious, ice-cold glare turning into a mere stern look, then melting even further and ending up in a poorly suppressed smile. And then Francis gives in and laughs, too, his mask breaking into a million tiny shreds and scattering around the room because no one can resist pure and never-ending laughter for long. A deep rumble erupts from his chest so that he has to clutch at his stomach and gasp for breath.

"You little _punk_," he manages to wheeze out, sliding down on the floor to lean against his grandmother's old sofa. "What got into you, you just, just, _why_?"

Arthur plops down beside him, still laughing but seriously trying to win control over himself again, desperate for air. He looks at Francis, at the sticky lump of gum and hair at the nape of his neck, and breaks into chuckles again just when he nearly managed to stop. "Oh, you should have seen your face... Priceless!"

Francis makes to touch the gum, but decides against it at the last minute and withdraws his hand, shuddering. "This is disgusting. Arthur, _stop_, I swear I'll make you eat it if you don't stop at once!"

Arthur shakes his head, drawing in shaky breaths, belly nearly cramping. "Oh, don't be so gross, Francis."

"_Me?_ Seriously though, Arthur, why?" Francis wrinkles his nose in disgust and Arthur knows he's not faking it; Francis has always taken particular care of his hair.

"I, well, I really don't know," he admits, dragging his fingers through his hair. "The chance just presented itself, and I..." And he couldn't stand Francis' rejective back any longer, that's why. He doesn't know what he meant to achieve, but at least the cold silence is now gone, isn't it?

Francis rolls his eyes. "You don't know. Right." He threateningly wiggles his forefinger at Arthur. "This will come right back at you, mark my words."

Arthur merely snorts in response, but that's all that Francis needs. He hurls himself at Arthur and goes straight for his weak spot – his sides. Arthur yelps but doesn't react quickly enough to dodge the attack, and Francis' hands are all over him, fingers digging into his ticklish sides with no mercy.

"I'll torture you to death!" Francis cries victoriously, eyes shining in determination to fulfil his threat.

"Bloody fucker!" Arthur howls, trying to simultaneously punch Francis and wiggle away from his nimble hands. "Fuck! No, stop! Frog! Stop!"

And so they roll on Francis' floor like children, each fighting to gain the upper hand in their battle. Francis has an advantage – he's ticklish only in the soles of his feet – but Arthur tries to pinch at the hairs of his beard, in response to which Francis, in turn, pinches Arthur's eyebrows. Mortified by such humiliating action, Arthur finds new strength in himself and manages to capture Francis' nose between his fingers and kick enough distance between the two of them.

For a few seconds they both remain alert, staring at one another, muscles tense and ready to react should either one attack again, but then Francis relaxes and rolls on his back and laughs. Arthur looks at him trying to catch his breath. It's been a while since he's seen Francis laugh like that, heartily and mirthfully and so completely at ease... or rather, it's been a while since he, Arthur, has been the cause of such laughter. And a rather long while at that, too. He looks at Francis' chest rising and falling and is suddenly struck with a feeling that an invisible wall between them has collapsed.

Francis turns his vivid blue eyes at Arthur, and the Englishman can't help returning his silly grin.

"That was fun," Francis says.

Arthur's grin widens into a smirk. "You know what's even more fun?"

"What?"

"The chewing gum is sticking to even more hair now."

Arthur watches in delight how Francis' eyes widen in horror. "_Merde!_ I forgot that! Disgusting!"

Francis shudders again and attempts to locate the sticky lump in the back of his head, and a certain memory comes to Arthur's mind. "Remember the first haircut you ever gave me?" He grins. "Looks like it's time for me to return the favour."

"Oh no, no no no. You are _not_ bringing scissors anywhere near my hair."

Arthur shrugs, the taste of a satisfying victory sweet on his tongue. This round is his. "Well, if you want to prance around with gum in your hair..."

Francis glares at him. "I'll go to a hairdresser."

"Good luck with getting a time earlier than in the next week."

"You are enjoying this," Francis accuses him, realising his defeat.

Arthur just can't bother hiding his grin. "Why, yes, I'm afraid I am."

Francis glares at him, then, but finally smiles a little. "I can see that," he says and chuckles again. "How could I say no to those eyes of yours? If only you know how much you look like your little self right now."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Why do you keep comparing me to my little self all the time? Move on, frog, time does too."

"Because everything used to be so simple when we were little," Francis says, his voice suddenly free of playfulness. He looks at Arthur with thoughtful, dreamy eyes. "_We_ used to be so simple. You know, when we spent practically all our time together and nothing was complicated."

Arthur fidgets a little on hearing that, suddenly realising how close he is sitting to Francis. He isn't quite sure he likes the direction that Francis has taken in their conversation. He feels as if they are stepping over familiar boundaries, and it isn't safe there on the other side. But at the same time, this new (old?) territory appeals to him like nothing ever has. "Mh," he says, letting Francis take the lead; he doesn't want to misinterpret the atmosphere and blurt out anything that he'll have to regret later.

Francis gives him a sideways glance, noting Arthur shifting sightly further. "Just now we were just like then," he says, contemplatively, and Arthur's stomach flutters a little when Francis smiles at him. "I like it."

"How come you got so sappy and nostalgic out of the blue?" he asks, making sure to sound at least a little bit sarcastic to make up for his own smile.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that I've got _gum in my hair,_" Francis says, very pointedly. "Fine. You may cut it off. But only the gum, you hear me? I swear, if you as much as _think_ of doing anything wicked to my hair, your eyebrows shall _burn._"

The temptation is there, but Arthur decides to refrain from messing with the Frenchman's hair any further, partly because he actually believes Francis to carry out his threat, and partly because...

Because he finally gets to touch Francis' perfect, wavy, soft hair again.

He used to play with Francis' hair when they were kids, Francis and him. Back then, Francis laughingly allowed Arthur to wrap his hair around his fingers, attempting braiding it (he never learnt, though), or just play with it when they were napping together. Arthur's little kitten Horatio had always done the same to Francis' cat Napoléon's fur, and soon discovered the joys of playing with Francis' hair, too. Francis never liked that, Arthur knows, but he also knows that the French boy allowed the kitten to play with his golden strands just to see Arthur tumble to the ground in giggles. "You should appreciate this," Francis would tell him, then. "Only the few chosen ones that I particularly like are allowed to touch my hair."

Now, taking scissors and slipping his fingers through Francis' locks to feel the sof- _to__ find the sticky lump_, Arthur wonders if those faraway words from the past still apply.

X


End file.
